


Wall of Fire

by KelpietheThundergod



Series: Right Where The Ocean [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: s10e18 Book of the Damned, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they enter the front of the house, even the swishing of the trees can't be heard anymore. The floorboards are old and they have to proceed even slower than usual to not send them creaking. Dean swears he can smell the river even through the dust, can feel grains of sand under his boots although when he looks there's nothing there except dark and splintered wood. Sam signals for the staircase leading down into the basement, and Dean lets him take the lead.</p><p>Going downstairs is like descending into a cave. Something prickles at the back of Dean's neck, and he tenses, strains his eyes to see through the gloom. A smell like salt water and burning wax hangs in the air, and his heartbeat picks up a notch. Something about it feels oddly familiar and alarming, but he doesn't get time to dwell on it because as soon as they're down the stairs, a pair of glowing eyes stares at them from about six feet away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wall of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> For my dear friend lost-shoe on tumblr - happy birthday!!

 

 

_**wall of fire** _

_shudders in your veins_

_a smile_

 

_torn out with your teeth_

 

_who can speak and who can_

_turn you_

_now_

 

 

 

 

 

“The nun, what was her name?”

The tabletop focuses slowly in front of him, a flat bare stretch of brown and black, with white spots like salt lakes. It's burning his eyes. He rubs them, then forces his eyes up and sees Sam standing a few feet from him. Sam is holding his tablet in one hand, a cup with something streaming in the other. He's wearing a shirt the color of dust and sun bleached weeds, and he's frowning at Dean. Dean blinks, rubs at his eyes and blinks again.

Sam sets on to reply, then stops abruptly and starts again. “I don't even know which one you mean.” Dean squints at him, scrubs a hand down his face. Jesus, but his head hurts. He is so tired. But there were signs, he'd been researching them. Trying to find a pattern. And then –

He frowns up at Sam, who's looming above him. He feels confused. “Which one I mean about what?” Sam's face freezes only for a second, then it smoothes out. He smiles a little. “Nothing, Dean. Get some sleep, you look beat.”

Sam leaves, maybe a bit too quickly. But after the last couple of days, Dean can't blame him. And Sam is probably right, he is falling asleep sitting up. He leaves his research behind, staggers down the hall. He falls into bed fully clothed. His throat feels parched, and he's still contemplating forcing himself up again to get some water when he slips under.

>

He dreams in burning orange and faded yellow.

It seems to take a long time until he's even aware that he's awake again. He's lying on his side, staring at the wall. He feels confused, and then realizes it confuses him that the wall is not the color of sand, but the dull red and brown of stone. Those colors are unusual for his dreams. Hellfire isn't warm. It's not anything like what fire is on earth.

Even stranger, he thinks he dreamed of the ocean. But not the ocean blue and green and cool, the beach a sandy white, but the ocean dried and the sand like ash and grit. It's unsettling, and makes him feel exposed and raw. He throat feels like sandpaper, and he heaves himself up, then has to stop mid-movement when his head spins and his arms tremble. He squeezes his eyes shut, concentrates on his breathing. He didn't even drink last night.

It takes way longer than it should until he can stand. He chucks down three glasses of water from his sink, the taste cool and slightly metallic. The sound of it hitting the ceramic when he splashes some of it on his face is too loud in his room. He looks at himself in the mirror, then turns and looks around his room, a shudder making its way down his spine. There is nothing here but him, and yet he feels watched. He rubs at his eyes again. A shower, he's gonna take a shower and scrub this feeling off his skin.

He keeps his gaze down when he grabs some clothes and then exits his room. He closes the door behind himself with something almost like relief. He tells himself he's just gonna lock this feeling inside there, leave it behind. Without him there, it won't have any choice but to get washed away. And when he returns, it won't be there anymore.

>

He stands a long moment in front of the spray, feeling the heat and the humidity on his face and arms. There's a strange feeling of deja-vu, like he's dreaming again, so he pushes himself forward, under the water. He stands there with his eyes closed, just letting himself feel. The water is the same as always, but now it's too hot. Chafing on his skin, instead of soothing. He sighs, reaches out blindly and turns the heat down. And then even further down.

He's shivering by the time he finally reaches for the soap, the water barely lukewarm. But the coolness makes his heart beat slower. He just feels too hot inside. Goosebumps rise on his skin when he towels himself dry, but he feels a bit better. A bit more awake. On any other day, he'd dress in his room and brush his teeth, but he doesn't feel like going back there. He dresses in the shower room and goes straight to the kitchen, trailing a hand along the wall as he walks.

Sam is already there, drinking coffee and brooding over his tablet again. He looks up when Dean enters, dark circles under his eyes and his smile warm but shaky. Dean sighs, claps Sam on the shoulder in passing. “Hey, you want some breakfast?” He walks up to the counter, pulls open some cupboards. Behind him, Sam hesitates for a moment. “Yeah, that'd be great, thanks.” Dean contemplates what they have in the fridge, decides that he's gonna make that disgusting white egg yolk thing Sam likes. He doesn't really feel like eating anyway.

Sam looks positively surprised if a bit wary when Dean sets it down in front of him. “You not gonna eat anything?” Dean sits down opposite him, pours himself some coffee. “Nah, not awake enough yet,” he dodges. It might even be true, he's not sure. Sam watches him critically for another moment, but then digs in. He freezes with the fork halfway to his mouth though when he catches Dean grimace after his first swallow of coffee. “What?” he asks, sounding almost alarmed. Dean sets his cup down, grimaces again. “I dunno, it tastes – didn't you notice?”

Sam goes still. “Tastes like what, Dean?” His voice is flat, but the worry is obvious. Dean hesitates, rubs at his forehead. He doesn't want to lie, but except for dinner with Charlie and Cas, their days have been nothing but stressful crap. This might not even mean anything. He blows out a breath, “Like... salt, I guess. My mouth tastes like crap though. I'm probably just thirsty” He gets up again to get himself water. Sam chuckles dryly behind him, though it sounds a bit forced. “Dude, you realize that's not really comforting after the whole khan worm thing?”

Dean makes a face while he fills a glass up at the sink. “Well, I'm not ready to drink outta the dog bowl yet.” He forces his voice to sound light and unconcerned, and it's harder than it should be. Sam doesn't say anything in return. Dean stands at the sink too long, drinking his water, and trying not to notice how the water tastes good as long as he doesn't have it in his mouth too long.

>

They team up with Randy to clear out a vamp's nest down in Louisiana. Randy looks pleased when he sees them, claps Dean on the back, “Looking good, Dean.” The cheer sounds a bit forced though, and there's something almost like worry flickering in his eyes. Dean doesn't address it, but he knows he is definitely not looking good. He's wearing too many layers, shivering in the swampy heat. His insides feel too hot, and yet the sun doesn't seem to warm him up at all.

He shrugs, tries to sound unconcerned. “So, where they're hiding?” Randy points down the road in reply. He's wearing a black and red checkered flannel that is making Dean's eyes hurt and his guts churn. “Hauled up in the basement of this wreck of a house couple miles down the road, right next to the river. Place looks creepy, can't miss it.”

The place turns out to be a two-storied monster of a thing, a huge but empty veranda and the dark wood bleached by the sun to the color of old bones. It stands in the shadows of over-hung trees and looks like it might collapse onto their heads if they even so much as set a single foot inside it. Dean grimaces while he looks it up and down, goosebumps rising on his arms. He can't image anyone ever calling this place home. Not anyone sane, anyway.

“So, you two go through the front, I come in from the back?” Randy asks, sounding confident. Any other day, Dean would argue that he should be the one going in alone. Not because he distrusts Randy's hunting abilities, but because it's what he does. But he's not sure he feels up to it, his head feeling fuzzy and the gurgling of the river making him nervous. And if things go south in any way, the vamps wouldn't be the only dangerous things in there. Better someone is close to keep an eye on him as well.

He nods his agreement, and Randy takes off to close in from the back. Since it's broad daylight the nest should be asleep, but if they suspect there to be hunters in the area they might have one of them stay up and play guard. Wouldn't be the first time. It's eerily silent while they wait for Randy to get in position. The soft breeze makes the trees whisper, and Sam shifts his weight next to Dean, shooting him concerned glances from time to time. He didn't protest against taking the hunt, almost seemed eager to get away from the bunker for a bit. Not that Dean can blame him on that one, the place seems way too empty without Cas and Charlie in it. But ever since that fucking book Sam is more careful around Dean again, and just that bit too quiet.

When they enter the front of the house, even the swishing of the trees can't be heard anymore. The floorboards are old and they have to proceed even slower than usual to not send them creaking. Dean swears he can smell the river even through the dust, can feel grains of sand under his boots although when he looks there's nothing there except dark and splintered wood. Sam signals for the staircase leading down into the basement, and Dean lets him take the lead.

Going downstairs is like descending into a cave. Something prickles at the back of Dean's neck, and he tenses, strains his eyes to see through the gloom. A smell like salt water and burning wax hangs in the air, and his heartbeat picks up a notch. Something about it feels oddly familiar and alarming, but he doesn't get time to dwell on it because as soon as they're down the stairs, a pair of glowing eyes stares at them from about six feet away.

Either they did have a guard or he and Sam woke one of them up. It doesn't matter, because in a flash the others are awake too and the ball drops. It's seven of them, and Dean dodges to the side, hoping to draw at least half of them away from Sam. Four of them actually come after him, and the first one loses its head with one sure swipe of Dean's machete. The others are more careful, and the next two rush at Dean together just as Randy crashes through the trapdoor on the other side of the room.

Dean has just yanked his blade out of another one's throat when he's grabbed from behind and bodily thrown into a drawer. He hits his head on the impact and goes down in a heap, taking the stuff stacked on top of the thing with him. Instinct tells him to try and scramble back up immediately, but then a blinding pain registers in his right arm and he drops back down with an anguished cry. Through his hazy vision, all he can make out for a moment is orange, and then the smell of wax and the pain connects and he realizes his arm is literally on fire.

He bangs his arm against the floor frantically while he struggles out of his jacket to smother the fire. He presses the fabric down even though it makes the pain so bad he can barely see anything. In trying to locate his fallen weapon, his gaze falls on the books he knocked down when he fell. One of them is big and red, and something about it makes that strange feeling of wrongness rush through Dean again. From far away, he hears Charlie's voice say how it's made of skin and blood, and then they burned the book, and how the smell in the air had been that of burning paper.

Time slows down while he stares at the books, his arm throbbing in agony while he presses down on it, tasting blood and dust in his mouth. Then he hears voices yell his name, and in the next second, sound rushes back in and a vamp has him by the throat, a knee on his chest to hold him down. The thing smirks at him, crookedly. Dean stares at the blank white of its teeth and dried out oceans flash through his mind, hallucinations in the shimmery air and sand storms so vicious they scrape the flesh from your bones.

The vamp chuckles and makes for his throat. Dean feels its teeth press down just as the thing's head gets yanked back and then cut clean off. Randy slowly comes into focus, looming over Dean with his face white and his chest heaving. “You ok?” Dean only manages to blink at him, and then Sam is next to him, pulling the jacket out of Dean's hand. He inspects the damage and grimaces, blows out a harsh breath through his nose. “Jesus, Dean. What happened?!”

Dean groans, but lets Sam heave him into a sitting position. “Get me some cool water, and a towel if you can find one,” he snaps at Randy, already carefully peeling the burned fabric away from Dean's injured forearm. Randy only nods, “Got it”, and thunders back up the stairs. Dean hisses in pain, glares disdainfully at the candles on the ground. The fire is out now. It blackened the wood a bit, but it never got so far as to touch the books and lit up the whole house. He stares at the books, and then at Sam's hands, and feels wrong in his own skin.

>

Sam forces aloe gel and ibuprofen at him, and demonstratively sits down in the front seat. Dean sighs and gets in from the other side. He leans his head against the window, stares down into the approaching darkness. His head feels like it's filled with sand, and his limbs ache like he's getting a fever. Sam is shooting him concerned glances, but stays mostly silent through the drive. He's obviously brooding over something, and Dean can guess what it is, but he doesn't know what he could say to make it better.

Since it's an over fourteen hours haul, they stop at a motel after about half of it. Sam shakes him awake, and Dean makes it as far as the bed. The whole room is ocean-themed and colored in blues and greens. It's oddly soothing, and Dean falls asleep with the light on and Sam still clicking away on his laptop.

He dreams of the beach.

This time, he can smell the sea in the air, hear it roaring in his ears. There's sand under the soles of his feet, warm and soft. He laughs, feeling light and free. In the distance, he can see the waves crash against the shore, blue and white. He starts forward when a hand closes around his wrist and holds him back. He tugs, but it's stronger than him. He wants to protest, only to find that his voice is gone.

The grip around his forearm turns him around by force. No one is there. No one he can see. Sand beats against him like a solid force when the wind picks up. He hears a vile laugh in it. Book pages slip through his fingers, but when he looks down his hands are empty.

He's not the one holding the book. He's the one that's burning.

>

Dean startles awake, his breath caught in his throat. He just lies there for a few moments, shivering and waiting for his heart to slow down. His arm still hurts, and his eyes feel hot and wet. He feels sad, but he doesn't know why. The room is dark, and he stares at the shadows on the wall until they look too much like flames and he has to avert his gaze.

With his aching fingers, he's still clutching at the bedspread. It feels rough and dry against his skin. He wishes it was light already, so he could see how blue it is.


End file.
